Pens and Pages

Writers don't move on. They make love with solitude, They take sorrow in their arms. They run their fingers down grief's spine. They touch words gently And force themselves on a river of tears. They let masochism win; so when they bleed, It's Utopia for them. Writers don't move on. They stumble on memories. They recall something that was eons ago. They embrace regrets And make love with retrospection. And when they do, They make memories their concubine, And then they sleep on past's lap, Because they're writers And writers don't move on...

Of years of solitude And a final downpour, Of dreams broken And all the pieces ashore, I wondered where went that river Of all the possibilities. The pen was lying dead On a blank paper; The ink overflown Drenched my soul; I wondered if I could ever make right The massacre I left behind. I wondered if I could Ever do what's right. They told me I was a writer And that made my life.

I lived for the solitude for the quiet at three in the morning for the calm at midnight for the peace near a noisy fountain for the company at a lonely garden I lived when you left and if you come back Darling! It will be too crowded Let me embrace the melancholy for I live when I am free for I am free when I am me left alone but not lonely Oh ! Don't come back! This wait is happiness This grief is bliss Sleepless nights console Monotonic mornings comfort Living in memories, I am not I live in the space between the two worlds you left where you departed and where we first met, where dreams were lived yet I was bereft...

Let that summer be yours and this winter, it will be mine to keep... the ever expanding white and the naked tree standing alone shamelessly let the green that once was, be yours  and this pallidity will be mine to keep... the coldness the sun fails to obliterate the darkness that falls sooner than ever let that warmth bygone be yours this solitude will be mine to keep...